


A First Hunt

by we_all_fall



Series: Falling Stars [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Healing, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crying Sam Winchester, Cutting, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Rape, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, Kid Sam Winchester, Mute Sam Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-09-01 11:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16764100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_all_fall/pseuds/we_all_fall
Summary: Seven-year-old Sam goes on his first hunt with John. It's a more complex hunt than it first appeared, and they get tangled up in the questions of who and what has been killing people in the quiet college town. And just as importantly: why?Sam desperately wants to earn John's love, especially since he lost Dean two years ago, but no matter how hard he tries it never seems to work.





	1. Cursed Objects or Werewolves

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third story in a series, but I think you could read it on its own if you don't want to bother with the first two. You won't miss anything critical. Happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lets Sam help with more than research for the first time. Sam's excited, but it might not be a good thing for him.

“You find anything yet?” John Winchester asked tiredly as he pulled his coat on.

Sam was messing with his hunting corkboard, trying to find a connection in the mess of pictures, scribbled notes and newspaper clippings. He didn’t look up when John spoke; he just pointed to a note he’d left on the table.

John read for a moment. “Cursed object, huh?” he said, “Let me see it.”

Sam snatched his pen from behind his ear, writing a few messy words on the back of an image of a silvery plant. He didn’t seem to hear his father.

“Sam,” John snapped, “Sam!”

Sam looked up, startled and wary.

“Pay attention; you’re being disrespectful,” John said harshly.

Sam scowled.

“Where’s the research for this?” John demanded.

Sam got up and stomped his way across the room to a cardboard box of old newspapers he’d stolen or borrowed. He flipped through them and pulled out several clippings and two pages of notes. He’d been doing all John’s case research for him for the past four months, and he knew he was just as likely to be right on a conclusion as John. They’d been through a lot of cases in that time, and Sam was incredible for a seven-year-old. He hadn’t been allowed on any actual cases yet, but he’d heard the stories of what happened and when he’d guessed the monster species correctly. And this was a pretty obvious cursed object problem.

John studied Sam’s research critically.

Sam forced himself not to look worried or attentive. He went back to his corkboard and pretended to study it, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. He tried to deny it, but he was desperate for John’s approval. He wanted love, but he knew he’d never get that. John had lost his capacity to love openly when Mary died, and he’d lost all love for anything when Dean died two years ago. Sam might get approval if he constantly did everything right and was the perfect hunter, but love or even basic affection wasn’t a possibility. But he’d work with what he had.

John threw the pile of papers and careful research at the back of Sam’s head. “It’s a werewolf, moron,” he snapped, “Check the lunar chart.”

Sam flinched. He ducked his head, bending down to pick up the scattered papers. His hands were shaking, with anger or misery he wasn’t sure. He didn’t think it could be fear. How could he be afraid of his own father? It wasn’t like John ever hit him or anything. He just spanked him sometimes for reasons that could be a bit confusing.

Sam set his papers on the table and started reorganizing them. He must’ve taken too long.

“I said check the damn lunar chart!” John yelled.

Sam flinched at the sound. He nodded, eyes pricking with tears. He wished Dean was there. Dean had always kept the brunt of John’s anger off Sam and comforted him when John left afterwards. And he’d always been there when Sam needed anything, even just someone to hold him or to talk to. Sam never talked to anyone anymore. There was no point, as no one wanted to listen. He didn’t matter.

Sam started crying. He tried to go get the lunar chart without turning towards his father so John wouldn’t see, but his shoulders shaking gave him away.

“Are you crying?” John demanded incredulously.

Sam shook his head furiously and futilely. He couldn’t help crying.

“Hunters do not cry,” John said scornfully, “Especially not for no reason. Real men don’t feel pain like that.”

Sam didn’t want to be a hunter. He didn’t want to be John’s definition of a real man, and he knew perfectly well that he couldn’t be any sort of man at seven. He wasn’t stupid. He did try, though. If he had to be emotionless and tough, he would try to be emotionless and tough. Maybe it would let him earn his father’s love someday. It was a dream, just a dream, but it was the only thing he had to live for. And he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

Of course, those types of thoughts hardly helped Sam quit crying. He wiped away his tears and tried to will himself to feel some other emotion. He just didn’t know how to stop crying. Happy, happy, think something happy. Dean. Think about Dean.

Sam focused on thoughts of his big brother, clinging onto them like lifelines. He thought of Dean’s smile, of Dean’s worried face when Sam was sick, of Dean watching kid cartoons when he thought nobody was looking, Dean helping him figure out the answers to all the questions he’d ask, Dean trying desperately to look and act older than he was, Dean suffering through music he didn’t really like just because Sam wanted to listen to it and share it with him.

And Sam managed to stop crying. He checked the death dates against the lunar chart and found that four of the deaths occurred within a few days of the full moon. The second death wasn’t anywhere near the full moon, which must’ve been why Sam had missed the pattern. But all the others were so maybe it was a werewolf. It didn’t look like a werewolf to Sam, but he was seven. Maybe he was just caught up in his cursed object theory.

He nodded curtly to John and put the papers away. He’d failed. Sam hurried to the bathroom and shut the door, staring into the mirror. His cheeks were damp and his eyes were lined with red, his nose felt hot and stuffy and his throat was tight. He blew his nose and wiped his cheeks with toilet paper, then splashed water on his face and brushed his hair. That didn’t look too bad.

John pounded on the door. “Hurry up! We’re leaving.”

Sam nodded even though he knew John couldn’t see it through the door. He washed his hands and left the bathroom. There wasn’t much packing to be done as they’d only been staying at the motel for six days, not even a week. Sam put his clean laundry in his duffle bag and hauled it out to the Impala along with his corkboard and other research equipment. John got the rest of the stuff.

The car started up, and they drove north to the town where Sam had thought there was a cursed object. Certainly if it was a werewolf John needed to take it down anyway. It had already killed five people. Sam looked at the symbols he’d carefully looked up and put together, the ones that would make a lock box that could contain the curse's power. He’d spent three hours piecing that together the day before, hoping to impress John with a perfect set of symbols. He guessed that time was wasted, since it was actually a werewolf.

Sam clutched his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep the tears back. Why was nothing he did ever good enough? He rocked back and forth to the rhythm of the engine’s hum.

Sometime later Sam was staring blankly out the window at the passing countryside. It was bright enough to sting his eyes, but he didn’t care. The light glittered on the pure white of the freshly fallen snow, blocked in places by the dull grey shapes of leafless trees. Dirty snow sat in heaps by the roadside where the plows had left it. The sky was a silvery mix of clouds, with no blue anywhere to be seen. The grim light the whole picture gave off set into Sam’s soul, similarly to how the icy wind the broken heater couldn’t fend off set into his body. He shivered against it, pulling his jacket closer to his body and hunching against the back of the seat.

The car ride was long, but that was normal and Sam was too used to it to care. He read a history book from four schools ago when he’d stayed long enough to get textbooks, hoping it would help him at the next school, whenever that was. He stared out the window a lot, and he listened to the radio or cassette tapes when John played them.

The music was fine. Everything was always fine and always terrible. He wished Dean were alive.

It was the middle of the afternoon when they pulled into the town with the werewolf problem. John pulled into the parking lot of a crappy motel and got out of the car. “Stay there,” he ordered.

Like Sam was planning to try following him. He knew the drill; he’d been staying in motel rooms since before he could remember. Stay in the car while John goes in and gets a room for a couple nights, then grab his stuff and walk over to the room. Prepare to stay there for up to two weeks longer than however long John says the hunt will take, as things have a tendency to go wrong. Prepare to be dumped there for however long that is, possibly without enough money to buy decent food or bus fare to get to school. He typically had to walk, and it could be miles. A lot of the time he didn’t bother going in the winter if it was too far. John tried to get a motel within a mile of the school, but a lot of the time it didn’t work out. Everything seemed normal until John was about to leave to fake being an FBI agent to get into the morgue.

“Are you coming?” he asked gruffly, as though it should be obvious.

Sam looked up from the storybook he was reading, confusion clear on his face.

“Put that down,” John said, “We’re leaving.”

Sam nodded hesitantly. Was he coming on a hunt? Seriously? He scrambled after John, excitement setting in as he processed that he was finally getting to come along on a hunt!

Sam was ecstatic for the entire car ride, struggling to keep from jumping up and down on his seat. He was hunting! He hadn’t dared to hope he’d be allowed to hunt before he was eight, at least. He settled down a little when he saw the building they were headed into. He knew he couldn’t pretend to be an FBI agent, so what was his cover?

John led Sam inside and started talking to the officer at the front desk. Sam didn’t pay attention until she asked about him. “It’s bring your kid to work day,” John explained smoothly, “He wanted to tag along.”

“How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked him.

Sam wasn’t sure how to handle a stranger trying to talk to him on a case. He knew he needed a reply. He wanted to hide behind his father but he knew he’d get in trouble later if he did so. He gave her a shy smile and held up seven fingers. It was easy to look bashful as he _felt_ bashful.

“Are you sure you want him in the room with the body?” she asked John.

“He’ll be fine,” John said.

Sam was proud that John thought he’d do ok. He resolved to be completely calm and not freak out at all, even if it was only the third time he’d seen a dead body in person. He didn’t count all the millions of pictures he’d looked at, and the vampires he’d seen die that time he’d been kidnapped disappeared from his mind, overshadowed by the memory of Dean lying motionless and not breathing on the floor. That had been the first time he’d seen someone die. After that, nothing in the morgue could mean anything.

OK, so he did freak out a little. The mortician pulled the body out and flipped the sheet off the face and chest. The shoulder was littered with bite marks, and large chunks were missing. The torn-up flesh was bruised purple and blue, with flecks of white, crushed up bone dotted through it. The middle of the chest below the neck was unbitten, but it was scored with a set of four claw marks. The claws must have been big and dug in deeply, because the marks were wide and deep and long, just generally horrific. The way the skin pulled apart creeped Sam out more than a lot of the other damage.

The corpse’s neck was broken and twisted out of shape, as though someone had seized it and pulled it away from the shoulders before twisting it violently around. It hadn’t been cut or bitten, but the skin had torn open under the pressure and the twisted insides of the neck were exposed except for a liberal covering of flaking dried blood. The head was mostly unharmed, but one bite had been torn from the cheek above the shredded shoulder, a jagged, toothy bite that cut into the gums in the mouth and showed a cracked molar with half missing. On the far side of the head was another set of scratch marks, shallow but wide. The hair and ear were dotted with dried blood drips.

Sam’s throat moved like he was vomiting and his lunch came up his throat, but he kept his mouth closed and swallowed painfully. He was _not_ going to look weak in front of his father. He tried to study the body clinically, but it was impossible. That was a person. The corpse had had friends and family, hobbies, worries, dreams, ambitions. He’d laughed and cried, he’d felt every emotion in existence at some point. He was human, and he wasn’t supposed to just be dead like this. Sam’s eyes stung.


	2. Witnesses and a Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sam to question the friends and family of four of the victims, and Sam runs into someone he didn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has just a tiny bit of self-harm in it. I don't think it could trigger anyone, but proceed with caution. I'll tag it if it gets any worse.  
> Also, there is discussion of an OC raping another OC. It is off-screen, brief, and nongraphic, but it could be a problem for some readers.   
> I also completely wrecked the plotline I'd had with this chapter. I came up with a new one, and a lot of the ideas are the same. Still, I miss my old plotline. My characters are mean.

Sam was extremely grateful to be done in the morgue. He also wasn’t at all sad that the other corpses had already been disposed of and were no longer available to be examined. From what he could tell from the photographs all of the bodies had identical wounds down to the last claw mark. It sure looked like a cursed object to him, but if John wanted to go on a werewolf hunt he could go on a werewolf hunt! Fine. Sam wasn’t mad about this completely unfair situation _at all!_ He smashed his fist down onto his leg, just above the knee.

He jerked back as tingles ran through his hand and his leg, shocked at his own action. Had he just hit himself? At first the contact point of the hit just sent a tingling throb to the rest of his leg like ripples in water. It took a moment for the ache and the pain to set in and start to hurt. And then it faded, leaving nothing behind, not even a bruise. His fist followed a minor version of the same pattern: tingles, pain, dull pain, nothing.

He paused, thinking about what had just happened. He’d hit and he’d been hit before, so the practical pieces of what had happened were nothing new. It was just the idea that he’d hit himself that was getting to him. But it made sense, what he’d done. There was nothing in the bare motel room for him to hit that wasn’t off limits or fragile, and it helped him to get his anger out on something. It wasn’t like he’d left a wound. He stored the incident in the back of his mind to remember if something related came up and stopped thinking about it.

The full moon was close enough that John figured the werewolf could strike again as early as the next night. He had Sam go through the kills to see if they were concentrated anywhere in town for him to investigate, but they were scattered all over. Mark Albert and Monica Peters both lived a little ways out of town, but in different directions. Scott Myers lived in a neighborhood in the town, Angela Connors lived on the college campus, and Harold Johnson lived smack in the middle of downtown.

When that idea fell through John gave up on research and preparation, and brought Sam with him to question the victim’s families. But Sam had noticed something interesting. Scott Myers and Monica Peters went to the same high school, and Mark Albert and Angela Connors went to the same college. If he could find a way to connect the two schools, maybe he could find a link for how the cursed object got passed between them. He thought about showing his findings to John, but gave up the idea. He didn’t know if he could handle more mockery and hearing how he’d done something else wrong. It wasn’t worth it, and the idea put a lump in his throat.

There were no relatives living anywhere near the most recent victim, Harold Johnson, so John had decided to just quickly check his apartment for anything obvious and try asking the neighbors if they knew anything. Maybe they were acquainted with him. He led Sam into the apartment building and up the stairs. They were dusty and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a nice place.

Harold Johnson had lived in apt. 8 on the third floor. The police had already finished with his apartment and a new couple was living there. It was 6:40 on a Thursday morning, so Sam wasn’t surprised when there was a delay before a tired looking man in his late forties opened the door.

“Are you serious?” the man asked crossly, “Come back in an hour.” He tried to close the door, but John held it open.

He showed the man his fake badge. “FBI. I just want a look at the place.”

The man groaned, then looked at Sam in confusion. “Wait, if you’re FBI, then why’ve you got a kid with you?”

“Bring your kid to work day,” John explained curtly, “I want to see all the entrances to the house, including windows.”

“Fine,” the man grumbled. He turned to call into the apartment. “Shirley! The feds are here!”

There was no response. He shrugged. “Probably still sleeping.” He let John and Sam into his apartment. “Don’t mess stuff up, ok?”

The apartment had boxes stacked against a wall and all the other obvious signs of people who had just moved in. John went through it, looking for signs that a werewolf had gotten in. Sam stood awkwardly in the living room, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. He sat down on the couch and swung his legs, looking around curiously.

A few minutes later a woman who must’ve been Shirley walked into the living room. “Hey,” she said, “You’re awfully little for a fed, huh?”

Sam ducked his head, shrugging.

“Chocolate chip cookie?” she offered.

Sam sat up straight, eyes lighting up hopefully. Cookies were great, and chocolate chip was the best! He knew he wasn’t supposed to take food from people on cases because it could be poisoned or enchanted, but this was just common politeness, right? Right. And it wasn’t like Shirley and her husband were suspects, they were just people who’d moved into an apartment after a murder. The police had ruled it an animal attack, so there was no reason not to let someone else move in.

Shirley showed Sam to the kitchen and gave him a chocolate chip cookie and a glass of milk. He ate the cookie in three bites, so she gave him another. He grinned. Cases were great!

“How old are you, kiddo?” she asked.

Sam licked melted chocolate off his thumb and showed her seven fingers. He knew he was a little old to do the little kid lifting fingers trick, but it helped a lot when people asked that, which they seemed to do pretty often.

“I’m Shirley,” she said, “What’s your name, sweetie?”

Sam contemplated that question. He mimed writing after a moment.

“Oh, do you not talk?”

Sam nodded.

“You poor little thing!” She quickly found a notepad and a pen and passed them to him.

Sam bitchfaced. He wasn’t poor or little. Seriously.

Shirley cooed at him and offered him another cookie. Sam wasn’t going to refuse a third cookie, especially not since he’d had to skip breakfast that morning, so he felt he couldn’t really complain about her fussing over him.

He wrote _I’m Sam_ on the paper while he nibbled on the cookie.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Shirley said. She had an honest, open smile that made it hard not to smile back. “So, what are you doing on a federal investigation?”

Sam grinned. _Dad said I was old enough to tag along for a day. He doesn’t think questioning witnesses is too dangerous._ It wasn’t entirely the truth, but he figured it captured the essence of the truth without revealing anything John could object to. And John didn’t care about Sam’s safety much at all, but he certainly couldn’t tell Shirley that. She wouldn’t understand.

“I wanted to be a secret agent when I was your age,” Shirley said, “They all seemed so cool in mystery novels.”

 _What did you end up doing?_ Sam wrote curiously.

“Stenography,” Shirley explained.

Sam looked confused.

“Shorthand,” Shirley explained, “It’s a form of writing.”

Sam nodded. _Cool._

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Sam hesitated. _Dad wants me to do what he does,_ he wrote finally.

“But what do _you_ want, Sam?” Shirley asked, “You’ve got a lot of time to think on it, but in the end it’s your life and your decision.”

 _I want to help people_ , Sam wrote, _but I want to be normal, too. And I want a job with lots of thinking and studying and less running around fighting bad guys._

“Hey, Sam, we’re leaving,” John called from by the door.

 _Bye_ , Sam wrote.

“It’s been great talking with you, Sam,” Shirley said.

Sam hugged her impulsively. And then he hurried after John, stopping for a moment to smile and wave back at her as he ducked out the door.

John was knocking on the door of apt. 7 next to apt. 8. Sam zoned out while they were waiting for someone to answer. A while later a kid who looked to be about Sam’s age opened the door. He looked strangely familiar. 

“Good morning. Isn’t it kinda early, though?”

“Are your parents home, son?” John asked.

The kid shook his head. “Auntie Mara’s not home right now,” he said, dark eyes dancing as though he’d just said something funny.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Probably not for a while,” he said, smiling, “She’s a little tied up, what with work and all.” 

“Were you at home on November 2?” John asked.

“No,” the kid said, “I was away at the garden all day.” 

“And the night?”

“I was studying,” he said.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual from the apartment across the hall?” John asked.

“Sorry,” the kid said, shaking his head, “My study was all consuming.” He was smirking again.

“Alright,” John said gruffly. He turned and left.

Sam looked back and forth between John and the kid. John was knocking on the door of number 9 across the hall. He would’ve stuck with John, but something made him linger by the other boy.

“Hello,” the kid said after a long moment.

Sam smiled at him.

“I’m Michael,” he said, offering Sam his hand.

Sam shook it. “Sam,” he said shyly. And then his eyes widened. He’d just- spoken. He hadn’t been able to make himself speak even a single word for two years. What had changed? He focused on Michael. There was something off about him that Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on. “W-what- did- did you-?”

“I wanted to be able to talk _with_ you, not _at_ you,” he explained, “Your voice is your most powerful weapon, Sam. You’re going to need it.”

“W-what are you talking about?” Sam asked, scared. He’d picked up instinctively on the fact that Michael was way more powerful than he was, and he felt exposed and vulnerable. “Why are y-you here?” He wished he could at least keep from stuttering.

“Don’t be scared, Sam,” Michael said with a gentler tone, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” Sam asked.

“I told you,” he said, “I’m Michael.” He winked and strolled back into the apartment, letting the door swing closed.

Sam had no idea what to do with that conversation. He shook his head after a moment and went to see how John was doing in his conversation with the other possible witnesses. John had given up on the people in apt. 9 when they didn’t answer after he knocked three times, and he was talking with a young man in the doorway of apt. 10.

“She was pretty, kinda young,” the young man was saying, “She might’ve been a college kid, but she looked more high school to me, honestly. Smudged makeup like a kid, but then she might’ve smudged it while she was getting drunk.”

“You say she was drunk?” John asked.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, “She was drunk enough I was impressed she could walk. Now, Harold might’ve been a bit tipsy, but he was not that drunk. Disgusting.”

“Can you give some details on what she looked like?” John ordered.

“I already gave this stuff to the police,” the man protested.

“Give it again,” John said firmly in his I’m-an-FBI-agent-don’t-you-dare-mess-with-me voice.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” the guy said, “She was about yay tall, black hair, brown eyes, a small nose, slim face. She looked kinda washed out and too thin. Nasty looking raccoon eyes. I guessed she was sick or something. She was wearing light blue jeans and a baggy royal blue sweater. Had those silver hoop earrings, too. Is that enough description, officer?” He sounded annoyed.

“And you definitely didn’t see her leave the apartment?” John asked.

“No, but there’s no reason I would’ve noticed,” the young man said, “Kid probably stayed the night and ducked out early when she realized what’d happened.”

“Let me know if you remember anything else,” John said brusquely, handing the man a copy of his business card.

John hadn’t eaten Shirley’s cookies, so he was hungry and stopped for breakfast. Force of habit made Sam point to the garden salad he wanted on the menu instead of trying out Michael’s gift and speaking. He still wasn’t confident that he could. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Michael, Sam was willing to trust on instinct alone and his instincts were all telling him that Michael at the very least wouldn’t trick him like that. He wanted to trust the majority of his instincts that were telling him Michael wouldn’t hurt him, but he wasn’t quite that innocent. He wasn’t ready to believe that there was anyone alive he could trust that much.

The next victim’s house was in a white picket fence type neighborhood. The house was large and nice looking, but it had a darker edge to it that Sam didn’t like. Something was obviously wrong here, despite the idyllic surface. He hung back nervously as John marched up the shoveled path and rang the doorbell. No one answered. John rang the bell a second time as Sam went up the walk. Sam didn’t approach the door.

John knocked a couple of times afterwards in case the bell wasn’t working, but it was pretty obvious they were out. “We’ll talk to the neighbors, then,” he told Sam calmly, “If the neighbors can’t help us we can come back in the evening and see if they’re home.”

Sam nodded.

John went one house over and rang that doorbell. This house wasn’t as nice as the victim’s house, but it didn’t have the aura of- whatever that was that creeped Sam out- and he happily followed John up the steps to the porch. He was half hoping that since this was the second house they tried for the second victim Michael would show up, since he’d first appeared at the second house for the first victim. No, it didn’t make any sense to Sam either. He was just hopeful. Michael scared him, but he was interesting and confusing and Sam wanted more information. He loved mysteries, especially dangerous ones.

But the woman who answered the door was boring. Sam saw that at first glance.

“Hey, I was wondering what you could tell us about the people who live over there,” John said, motioning towards the victim’s house.

“Oh, I would love to,” she said, very quickly and without seeming to pause for air, “It’s a little family, but of course it used to be bigger. The older daughter, Monica, used to be a whole lot of trouble. She was seventeen, you know. Teenagers. She’d play loud music with nasty lyrics late into the night, and she only ever wore black clothes. She sometimes even smoked drugs! Shocking. But Monica Peters died last October. It was the night of the full moon, and Monica had a friend over. Little Sylvie, poor thing. The parents, Eddy and Donna, were asleep, and of course their youngest, Ashley, was as well. Ashley’s only just four now, you know. And at the stroke of midnight, there was a terrible scream! It went on and on. It was like someone was being ripped apart, it was that bad. Eddy and Donna raced downstairs and were met with the horrible sight of their beloved little Monica lying cold and dead on the ground. She’d been dead for _hours_. They felt so guilty for not finding her sooner. Well, Donna did. Eddy beat Donna and Monica all the time, so I don’t know if he felt anything. I’m not sure the man has a heart. Why, I remember when Eddy first brought his bride home. Donna was such a sweet , dear thing back then. She used to sing in the choir. Such a lovely voice. She barely says a word now, forget singing.” The woman looked awfully sad, and John used that momentary break in her speech to quickly excuse himself and run off. Didn’t she need to breathe? Apparently not.

Sam was a little confused about how long dead Monica could scream, but he guessed the lady hadn’t said that it was Monica, just that someone was screaming. She’d implied it, but she hadn’t outright said it. It could’ve been the friend- Sylvie? Or maybe the little sister, Ashley.

The third place John and Sam went was the Myers’ home on the other side of the town. Seventeen-year-old Scott Meyers had gone to the same high school as Monica, although they’d been in different grades. Monica had been held back a year in middle school. When John knocked on the door (the doorbell had been taped over so he ignored it) a woman in her early thirties opened it almost immediately. She seemed to be in a hurry.

“Um, yes, can I help you?” she asked.

“Carol Myers?” John asked.

“Um, yes, that’s me,” she said, “What is it? Please don’t say father’s hurt.”

“I’m a federal agent,” John said, “I want to ask you a few questions about your son.”

“Oh.” Carol seemed to deflate. “I- I- alright. Why don’t you come in.”

She ushered John and Sam into the living room and sat down heavily, covering her face with one hand.

“Now, where was your son on the night of the attack?”

“I’ve answered these questions a million times,” Carol said pleadingly.

John just looked at her.

“He was at his girlfriend’s house,” Carol said dully, “They were meeting to work on homework. They do it every Monday.”

“The girlfriend’s name?” John inquired.

“Sylvie Albert,” Carol said, “She goes to his school. Or- what was his school.”

 _Sylvie_ , Sam wondered, _the same Sylvie as Monica’s friend? The one who was over at her house when she died?_ He waited for John to catch onto the pattern.

“When were you expecting Scott back?” John asked instead.

Sam figured either John had caught something he’d missed, or he knew more about talking to witnesses and was looping around to the topic to lessen some blow or something.

“His curfew’s at sundown, but he was never the best at keeping it,” Carol said, voice strained, “I didn’t start really worrying until he was two hours late. And then I got a call from Virginia, that’s Sylvie’s mom, and she was saying he was dead.” Her voice broke on the last word and she started crying.

“Did Scott know a girl named Monica Peters?” John asked, “She would’ve been a Sophomore at his school last year.”

“Um, no,” Carol said, “Never heard of her.”

“Do you know a Harold Johnson?”

“Not that I can think of,” Carol said uncertainly, “Why?” 

“Angela Connors?” John asked.

Carol shook her head. “I don’t know any of them.”

“Did Scott have any enemies?” John asked finally.

“What? He- it was an animal attack, officer,” Carol protested.

“Enemies,” John snapped, “Tell me.”

“Um, his rival basketball team?” Carol tried weakly, “Sylvie’s older brother was protective of her and a bit hostile? There’s nothing serious. I- I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.” She looked like she might start crying again.

John was out of questions, so he quit. “Contact me if you think of anything else,” he said curtly, shoving a business card at her.

Carol took it automatically, and John left. Sam tagged along after him.

The next victim was Angela Connors. She was the second one, the one who hadn’t died on the full moon. She was a college student from out of state, and she’d been in the town over the summer working a part time job at Walgreens and taking a few of the summer classes the school offered. Angela had no family anywhere near the town she’d died in, so John had found her best friend from the college to interrogate.

Kimberly Smith had been in Angela’s year and major, and they’d had a lot of classes together. Kimberly lived in town with her parents, so she was easy to find. Her neighborhood was cheaper and rougher than Monica’s had been, but not as poor as Harold’s or even Scott’s. A pale, blond girl answered the door immediately when John rang the bell.

“Hello,” she said questioningly.

“Kimberly Smith?”

“Yeah,” she said, “And you are…?”

“FBI,” John said, pulling out his badge, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Uh, ok,” Kimberly said, “Come in?” She stepped aside. “It’s cold out.”

John stepped in and Sam followed before Kimberly closed the door.

“You an FBI agent, kiddo?” Kimberly asked Sam.

Sam nodded proudly.

“It’s bring your kid to work day,” John explained.

“Didn’t know the FBI did that kind of thing,” Kimberly noted. She didn’t seem like she was going to push more, so Sam didn’t worry about it.

“How did you know Angela Connors?” John started.

“Oh,” Kimberly said, “That’s what this is about. Yes, she was my best friend for two years before she died.”

“Where was she on July 21?”

“She was working at Walgreens,” Kimberly said tiredly, “I worked there too, that summer, but I got off at two in the afternoon and Angela was supposed to work until closing. They just found her on the floor, dead.”

“Did Angela have any enemies?” John asked.

Kimberly paused, biting her upper lip nervously. “No…” she answered hesitantly.

“Was there anything unusual in the weather that day?” John asked.

“Uh…” Kimberly clearly hadn’t been expecting that question.

Sam guessed John was trying to come up with a reason why a werewolf would’ve been active without the full moon. Seriously, it was a cursed object. _Obviously_.

Kimberly struggled to think back over four months. “I think it rained in the morning,” she offered, “It was clear in the afternoon, and it got-”

“That’ll be all,” John interrupted her, turning and leaving rudely. Sam hung back.

He wondered if he’d be able to talk. He’d tried before, he’d spent eight or so months trying to talk after Dean was killed before he just gave up. But whatever Michael had done with that strange power he held, Sam had been able to speak. Maybe it was gone now, but he’d had a few minutes with his voice.

“Kimberly?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, kiddo?” she asked.

“Um, you kinda hesitated when Dad asked you about Angela having enemies,” Sam said, stumbling a little over his words, “I just wondered if maybe you kinda knew something. There was something.” He met her eyes earnestly.

“I dunno if I should tell a kid your age,” Kimberly said hesitantly.

“So there was something!” Sam cried, “I’m seven. You can tell me.”

“I doubt it has anything to do with the case…”

“Kimberly, lives could be at stake,” Sam pleaded, pulling out the puppy eyes, “You have to tell me.”

“Angela’d been acting funny ever since April,” Kimberly said, relenting, “She acted, like, um, a rape victim.”

Sam winced. He barely knew what that word meant, but it was serious and nasty. He’d heard it was one of the worst forms of torture possible.

“She wore lots of heavy sweaters, sometimes two or three at a time, even in the summer when it was really hot,” Kimberly continued, “She was always looking over her shoulder, and she’d flinch if somebody even brushed against her. She wasn’t sleeping very well, and she’d shake like a leaf if a guy so much as looked at her too long.”

“When did it start?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but I think- there was a party,” Kimberly explained, “I needed to write a paper for class, but Angela’d finished hers and she wanted to go. A bunch of her other friends were going. She wasn’t the same when she got back.”

“That’s bad,” Sam said, trying not to start crying. He didn’t want to think about anybody getting hurt like Angela had. It was scary and icky.

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

Sam nodded, lips trembling.

“So, um, I think it might be related to her death because Angela was recovering,” Kimberly explained, “And then she got suddenly worse- maybe a bit more than two weeks before her death. I don’t know what she knew, but there was something. I think she knew she was going to die and she couldn’t tell anyone. And she kept acting guilty. I didn’t understand. I still don’t. They ruled it an animal attack because that’s what it looked like, but I’m glad you’re looking into it.”

“Thank you, Kimberly,” Sam said, “You’ve been a big help.”

“Find out who killed her,” Kimberly pleaded. Her lips trembled, but she was too stubborn to cry.

“I’ll do everything I can,” Sam promised, “Angela didn’t deserve to die.”

“Luck,” Kimberly said.

Sam nodded. “I should go catch up with my dad,” he said.

“Right, of course,” Kimberly said. She led Sam out of the house and into the snow covered lawn.

Sam looked for the Impala, but he didn’t see it. “Huh. I could’ve sworn Dad parked the car right there,” Sam said uncertainly, motioning to an empty parking spot on the street.

“What kind of car is it?”

“It’s a ’67 Chevy Impala,” Sam said, “Black. But it’s not here.”

“I guess your dad missed that you weren’t in the car,” Kimberly said reasonably, “He’ll be back when he realizes you’re stuck here.”

Sam sighed. He wasn’t even that surprised. “This could take a while,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“No, no, really, it’s fine,” Kimberly said, “Come back inside. Does your dad have a car phone or something I could call?”

Sam shook his head. “I wouldn’t know the number.” The truth was that Sam wasn’t all that interested in having John find him earlier than necessary. He could just stay with Kimberly for however long it took. He figured it would be a couple days, tops, and that sounded like a nice vacation. Maybe he could even get Kimberly to let him go to a school if he was stuck for too long.

John had figured out that Sam wasn’t there before he even pulled away from the Smith house. He waited for about a minute to see if Sam was coming out, but when there was no sign of him John decided that being stuck at a stranger’s house for a few hours would be a good punishment for not paying close attention and following him out. Hopefully it would teach Sam to be more alert and cooperative. So he pulled away and went to go see if anyone from Monica’s family was home.

Kimberly didn’t seem sure what to do with a kid. “What do you like to do?” she asked after an awkwardly long pause.

“Read?” Sam asked hopefully.

“I don’t know if we have any kid’s books,” she said, “Lemme check.”

It took Kimberly some looking, but she found Lewis’ _Narnia_ books on an unused bookshelf.

Sam had read and loved the first two, but he’d never had a chance to read any of the others. He was massively excited and thanked Kimberly profusely before curling up on her couch with _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. He read for a long time, but he was only seven and his attention span wasn’t all that great yet. When he got tired of reading he found that Kimberly had gone upstairs where he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

With nothing to do, Sam found himself thinking about everything he’d found out from working on the case so far that day. It was complicated and he knew he’d need more information to solve it, but he had enough to put some pieces together, surely. Sylvie seemed to be a likely key to figuring out the case. Sylvie wasn’t a particularly common or uncommon name, but it seemed like a bit of a stretch to run into two Sylvie’s on the same case. So Monica’s friend that had been at her house when she died and Scott’s girlfriend who’d been with him when he died were most likely the same girl. Sylvie Albert was what Scott’s mom had said, right? And why did the surname Albert sound so familiar?

Oh. The pieces clicked into place in Sam’s mind. The first victim was Mark Albert. Sylvie shared a last name with the first victim, was the third victim’s girlfriend, and was good friends with the fourth victim. She was definitely key to solving this. Maybe she was a witch and had created the cursed object, or she could just be unknowingly carrying it. But if that was the case then Sam couldn’t think why it wouldn’t’ve killed her yet. So he was going with Sylvie Albert being either the witch who cursed the object, or in league with whoever did it. It sounded reasonable to Sam. Maybe he could impress John with his theory when John finally came back.

Sam smiled sleepily. It would be great if John believed him and he turned out to be right. It was a good piece of thinking, he was sure of that. Maybe John would say he was proud of Sam, or that Sam had done a good job. Sam drifted off to sleep on Kimberly’s couch to fantasies of his dad approving of him and caring about them.

 _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ slipped through his loose fingers and fell to the floor with a surprisingly loud thud for a thin paperback. The noise woke Sam from his daydream and brought him roughly back to reality. Even if he was completely right all the time constantly for the rest of his childhood and became the greatest hunter in the country, the simple fact was that his father never could and never would love him. He might win approval in a pinch, but it was extremely iffy. Love? Impossible.


	3. Putting It All Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They question the last witness, and things finally start to make sense. Sam is getting more confident with using his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sort of underage in this, but it's only mentioned and it's an OC so I didn't want to tag it. Let me know if I should. She's sixteen, so it's not like it's really all that underage anyway.

It was early evening when John finally came to pick up his seven-year-old son from the complete stranger’s house where he’d abandoned him. Kimberly was not impressed. She had a tense, angry conversation with John that Sam tuned out. He was trying to finish _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ before John was ready to leave and he’d have to give the book back.

His father called him to say that it was time to leave before he could, though. Sam walked over to where John and Kimberly were yelling at each other, his head still buried in his book.

“Don’t read while you walk,” John snapped, tearing the book out of Sam’s hands and thrusting it at Kimberly, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

Sam nodded silently. There was no way he was talking to John. He wasn’t actually sure John had noticed that he hadn’t spoken in two years. And as much as he tried to deny it, that hurt.

The car ride to the Albert’s house was short and silent. John got out his fake FBI badge and knocked on the front door. Sam rang the doorbell. A tired looking teenage girl answered it after a few moments. Her face was pale and her eyes were glassy. She just stared at them silently.

“FBI,” John said, “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

She shrugged. “What more do you have to ask?” she asked.

“You’re Sylvie Albert?” John checked.

She nodded dully.

“Where were you on the night of July 8th?”

Sylvie sighed. “I was in my room most of the night. I went down at 9:30 and ate a snack in the kitchen. Mark was in the living room smoking. I was back upstairs by 9:50. Nothing untoward happened. I finished up some homework and went to sleep around 11:00. I woke up in the morning when I heard my mom screaming and hurried downstairs. Mark was lying on the floor by the couch, bitten and torn up. The window above the couch was shattered. Dad called the police and you know the rest. Is there anything else?” She said all this mechanically, as though she’d recited it a hundred times and the words had ceased to mean anything to her.

John nodded thoughtfully. “Did you know Angela Connors?”

“No…” Sylvie said, “Wait. The girl who worked at Walgreens? Dirty blond hair, green eyes?”

“You knew her,” John said, surprised.

“Not well,” Sylvie said, looking confused, “I haven’t seen her for months. I just go to Walgreens a decent bit. I haven’t seen her there since summer.”

“Did you see her on July 21?” John demanded.

Sylvie thought for a while. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t remember the dates that far back. Why?”

“It would’ve been a Saturday,” John tried, “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”

“It was four months ago,” Sylvie protested, “I don’t remember, ok?”

John gave up and went to the next question on his mental list. “You knew Scott Myers,” he said.

Sylvie’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I knew him,” she said miserably.

“How did he die?” John asked.

Sylvie shivered. “I don’t _know_ ,” she said, “It didn’t make any sense, ok? I guess a wolf or something slipped inside- maybe I left the door open when he came in. I _don’t know_. I just went out of the room for two minutes to get a new lightbulb, and when I came back- just like Mark.” Her lips trembled. Her eyes were hollow.

“Did you know Harold Johnson?” John asked.

Sylvie thought for a moment. “No,” she said.

Sam couldn’t help remembering the description one of Harold Johnson’s neighbors had given of the girl he’d brought home on the night he died. The description seemed to match Sylvie pretty well. He ran back to the car to get a photograph of Harold from his pile of research on the case. It took him a moment to dig through and find the photograph, but he found it alright and brought it back to John and Sylvie. Maybe Sylvie would recognize a picture.

“She was just dead,” Sylvie was saying, “What more is there to tell? I found her lying there, like Mark and Scott, and I screamed, and her parents ran in. There was a big fuss, like normal. The lights flickered, everyone was screaming and crying. The police came. It was so cold.” Sylvie looked lost, and she seemed smaller than she had at first. “They took my best friend away and put her in a coffin. Mark. Scott. Monica. They’re all dead. In animal attacks. Animal attacks?!” Suddenly Sylvie was yelling. “How does that make sense? They were all indoors! The only window that was smashed was Marks! Nobody left any doors open, or any windows…” Sylvie trailed off and started crying.

“Get ahold of yourself,” John snapped.

“Sylvie?” Sam asked gently.

Sylvie looked at him.

“I’m sorry about your friends.” Sam’s voice was soft. “We’re just trying to make sure nobody else dies.” He held up the picture of Harold. “Do you recognize this man?”

“She already said she didn’t know him,” John snapped at Sam.

“Oh,” Sylvie said, looking at the picture. She wiped her eyes and looked again. “That’s _him_.”

“That’s Harold Johnson,” John said, “You said you didn’t know him.”

“I never got his name,” Sylvie said, straightening up. She took a calming breath. “I was stupid. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“It?” John demanded.

Sylvie made a face. “It was bad, ok? It isn’t-” she trailed off, groaning.

“What happened?” John demanded angrily.

“I went to a bar, ok?” Sylvie choked out, “It was so sketchy they didn’t ask for proof I was old enough to be there. I drank too much. Way too much.” She looked away, not saying anymore.

John was getting annoyed with having to drag the story out of Sylvie. “What happened? How did he die?!”

Sylvie took a step back. “I don’t know!” she cried, “I don’t remember. I woke up at his apartment, and he was lying dead on the floor. I just- found my clothes and ran, ok? I panicked. It was already so awful, and then he was dead, too, and- I don’t know. I just wanted out of there. I just wanted out.” She hugged her arms across her chest.

“You never told the police you’d been there when a man died?” John asked accusingly.

“No, ok! I _didn’t_.” Sylvie’s eyes flashed defiantly. She drew in a ragged breath and opened her mouth, but didn’t have anything to say.

“Sam, gun with silver bullets. Trunk,” John ordered.

Sam scowled at him. “What, you think she’s a werewolf?” he asked.

“Sam,” John growled.

“Sorry,” Sam snapped, turning to go get the gun from the car. He was back in two minutes.

Sylvie was sitting on the step, head in her hands.

“Werewolves aren’t aware of what they do while they’re turned,” John told her, “They’re mindless monsters.”

“I wouldn’t kill my brother,” Sylvie protested, “My best friend? My boyfriend? _Why_.” Her last word was a choked off cry.

“You didn’t know who you were killing,” John said.

“So, you want to kill me,” Sylvie said, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” John said, “Is that gonna be a problem?”

“You are so not an FBI agent,” Sylvie said.

“I’m a hunter,” John snapped, “I keep monsters like you from killing people.” He snagged the gun from Sam’s hand and pointed it at Sylvie.

“That’s fair,” Sylvie said, “It’s not like I’ve got anything to live for anymore.” She looked up at John. “Kill me.”

“You did check to make sure she’s a werewolf, right?” Sam asked nervously. He didn’t want it to happen like this. John couldn’t kill an innocent girl in cold blood. And she was innocent. Sam knew she was innocent, whether she was a werewolf who’d unknowingly killed people or not.

“She was at the site of four of the kills, and she didn’t see any of them,” John said, “She’s the werewolf. Guaranteed.”

“But what if she’s-” Sam started.

Sylvie cut him off. “Look, you’re sweet,” she said, “but I’ve wanted to die for months, just from watching everyone I love die around me. If I’m the one killing them, then that’s another reason…”

“Can we please just make sure?” Sam pleaded. He didn’t want to watch Sylvie die. There had to be a way to save her.

“We’re sure; you’re not doing any tests on her,” John snapped, flipping off the safety on the gun. “She’s a monster and she deserves to die.”

“Wait!” Sam yelped, not sure where he was going with this. He needed to say something to save her, or maybe just to buy a little time. “Sylvie, what’ll your parents think when they come home and find you’re dead? You should say goodbye, if you can.”

“So it’ll be ruled as a suicide,” John said thoughtfully, “Not a bad idea.”

Sylvie looked like she might start crying again. “My parents,” she said miserably, “They’re losing everything. It’s all my fault.”

“Talk to your parents and be weepy and off,” John ordered, “Say something vague about wishing you were dead.”

John’s cold tone made Sam sick. He ran back to the car to see if he could find anything on werewolves to prove Sylvie’s innocence. Only, she might not be innocent. What was he supposed to do if Sylvie was the werewolf who had killed all those people? Should he let John kill her in cold blood? He was sure she hadn’t _meant_ to do any of it.

Sam hadn’t brought much on werewolves in the car, as he had been sure it was a cursed object. He couldn’t think why a werewolf would leave exactly the same marks each time. It just didn’t fit. Sylvie _couldn’t_ be guilty. He sat on the seat, desperately trying to remember everything he knew about werewolves. He’d read about them, of course, but it had been a little while and he was having a hard time putting the pieces together correctly.

Werewolves were allergic to silver. He had a silver knife in his boot. John had said no tests, but Sam had the knife. Maybe if he just did it instead of asking he could get away with it. And then if Sylvie’s skin burned at the silver he would know that she was a werewolf, and he’d have to try to find- he didn’t know what. A cure? He didn’t think there was one. He hoped the silver knife wouldn’t burn her. Sam steeled himself for either possibility and walked back over to the doorway. Sylvie was sitting on the step, and John was a few feet away from her, staring at the ground and brooding.

“Hey, Sylvie,” Sam said, sitting down next to her.

“Sam, right?” she asked dully, not looking at him.

“Yeah.” He considered for a moment how to go about testing her. “Do you mind baring your arm for me?”

Sylvie looked confused. “Why?” she asked as she pulled her sweater over her head. Underneath it she wore a thin, sleeveless shirt. An odd, clumsily done tattoo was on her shoulder. Sam couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be, it was so messy.

“This might sting a bit,” Sam said, whipping out his knife and cutting a shallow line across her arm before she had a chance to protest.

Sylvie yelped and jerked away from him. “What was that for?!”

“Did it burn you?” Sam asked. He hadn’t seen any evidence of burning, but he wasn’t sure how obvious it would be. He’d never come across a werewolf before.

“What are you playing at?” Sylvie spluttered, getting up, “Of course it didn’t _burn_ me; it’s a knife!”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said honestly, “I just wanted to find out- you see, you aren’t a werewolf.”

Sylvie sat back down. “What do you mean?” she asked in a small voice.

“This knife,” he said, wiping the blood off on his pants, “is made of silver. Werewolves are badly allergic to silver. It’ll burn their skin on contact. You skin is fine.”

John stalked over to them. “Sylvie, was anyone with you for the murders?”

Sylvie took a moment to focus her thoughts before answering the question. “Mr. and Mrs. Peters were in the house when Monica died, but they were both asleep. And my parents were home the night Mark died. Again, they were upstairs sleeping. Scott and I were alone, and- and the last guy and I were alone as well.” She looked sick at the memory.

This still didn’t sound like a werewolf hunt to Sam. Maybe it _was_ a cursed object. And if it was, it sounded like Sylvie was carrying it around with her. “Sylvie, do you have anything you bring with you everywhere?” he asked, “A purse, a statuette, a special pair of earrings?”

Sylvie shook her head.

John scowled at Sam. “It’s not a cursed object,” he said harshly, “It might not be a werewolf, but it sure isn’t a cursed object.”

Sam scowled and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. Why did he even bother trying with his dad?

“Curses are real?” Sylvie asked, wide eyed.

“Werewolves didn’t phase you, but curses are a problem?” John snapped, annoyed.

“I’ve just been feeling like I’m cursed,” Sylvie muttered, scowling at the ground.

Everybody seemed to be scowling lately. It was such a miserable atmosphere. Sam scrubbed his hand over his eyes dully. Hunting was so stressful and so much less glamorous than he’d imagined. He just wanted to go back to the motel and color pictures or take a nap.

“Did anything change last summer before Mark died?” John asked, “Somebody new moved into the neighborhood, he had a fight with someone, somebody acted weird, anything like that?”

“Well,” Sylvie said hesitantly, “There is one thing that comes to mind. It was a short while before Mark died, maybe a week or two? And- it was about that girl from the store, the one you asked about. Angela.”

“What happened?” John asked.

“I didn’t think of it before, as I couldn’t figure out what it meant,” Sylvie said, “But you thought Angela was involved, and it was weird.”

“Sylvie. What. Happened.”

“I didn’t think Mark and Angela knew each other, that’s why it was so weird,” Sylvie blurted, “I was at Walgreens with Mark. We’d been out walking, and I was thirsty, so we stopped there to see if they had any drinks. Mark seemed a bit hesitant to go in, which wasn’t like him. He’s normally really confident and he never hesitates or listens to anyone. I mean, he was.”

“And what happened then?” Sam asked gently. John scowled at him. Seriously. Sam was allowed to talk, right?

“Angela was there, behind the counter,” Sylvie said, “She was holding a big glass jar; I don’t remember what was in it. Mark looked guilty when he saw her, and he ducked behind an aisle. Angela froze. Her face got really pale, and she just dropped the jar. The glass shattered and flew everywhere- it was really loud. She didn’t seem to notice. She just turned and went into the back of the store. She seemed to have a hard time walking, too, and she was always pretty graceful when I saw her before that.”

“Did you ask Mark about the incident?” John asked.

Sylvie nodded. “I tried. When I got insistent he said she was an old girlfriend, but it wasn’t true. I know Mark pretty well, he never had a girlfriend named Angela. And I could tell he was lying; it was written in his eyes.”

“So Angela Connors and Mark Albert had some sort of quarrel before his death,” John said, “They’re both dead, I don’t see how this could be relevant to the rest of the case.”

“Ghost?” Sam threw out half-heartedly, not really meaning it.

“No, it can’t be a-” John paused, considering.

The identical wounds on the victims suddenly made sense to Sam. If Mark was a ghost and he had died of those wounds, he could be inflicting a repeated pattern on his victims. “Didn’t somebody say Sylvie’s older brother didn’t like Scott?” Sam inquired.

Sylvie nodded. “He was overprotective,” she said uncertainly, “Why? You can’t think Mark’s a ghost.” She laughed nervously. “Seriously, that’s-” John cut her off.

“Flickering lights?” he demanded.

Sylvie looked lost.

“Have you had any problems with the light fixtures?” he snapped.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Ghosts make lights flicker,” Sam explained.

“The lights have been a nightmare,” Sylvie said in a low voice, “They’ve been flickering on and off for months. They were acting up at Monica’s house, too, when, well, you know.”

“So, Mark dies,” John said, “He has some quarrel with Angela, so he kills her first. Scott Myers, who he doesn’t like, is alone with his little sister. So he kills Scott.”

“Scott and I were, well, kissing a lot that evening,” Sylvie said, “Mark would’ve been furious.”

John nodded. “Did Mark have anything against Monica?”

“I- don’t know,” Sylvie said, “I don’t think he knew who she was. I only really got to know her in September, after he died.”

“He kills Monica for whatever reason,” John said, “Maybe by then he was just nuts and he liked killing.”

“Spirits aren’t stable,” Sam told Sylvie, “They go nuts and turn vengeful. Mark won’t be Mark anymore.”

“And then Harold Johnson,” John continued.

“After what happened Mark was gonna kill that guy, living or dead,” Sylvie said weakly.

“Where was Mark buried?” Sam inquired.

“Why does _that_ matter?” Sylvie complained.

“Ghosts use their bones to stay here,” John snapped, “We burn them, and Mark has to move on.”

“Oh,” Sylvie said, “That’d be a good thing.” Her voice caught a little.

“Where was he buried?” John asked.

“There’s a cemetery by the Lutheran church,” Sylvie said, “He’s buried there.”

“It’s easier to dig at night, but then Mark might show up,” John said, thinking through his options.

“The police don’t like grave robbers,” Sam explained at Sylvie’s questioning look, “And we’ve got to dig up the body to burn away the ghost.”

“It’s a pretty abandoned spot,” Sylvie said, “And it’s dark out already.”

“Not very dark,” John said.

“When do your parents get back?” Sam inquired.

Sylvie thought for a moment. “Probably in around three hours. They won’t be here for a while.”

“It can take a while to dig up a grave, depending on the soil,” John said, “We should get it done by the time your parents come along. They’d just complicate matters. Sam, stay here with Sylvie. Get your stuff from the car so you can fight the ghost if he shows up. I’ll come back when the bones are burned and we know it’s safe.”

John started towards the car, and Sam tagged along after him. He fetched an iron crowbar, crayons and a coloring book. Hunting was really stressful and overwhelming, and coloring sounded soothing. Sam and Sylvie went inside, and John drove off to the cemetery.

Alone in a strange house with a girl he barely knew, Sam’s stress and fear just increased. He tried to color, but he couldn’t concentrate and set his books aside. “I should- I should set down salt lines,” he said, desperate for something he could do.

Sylvie asked for an explanation, and soon the two of them were laying down a giant circle of salt around the couch and a chair in the living room. Sam didn’t want to do other rooms, since they might be in a hurry to clean up the mess before Sylvie’s parents got home. Just one room was easier. Sam and Sylvie sat down on the couch when they’d finished, and the silence felt awkward and unnerving to Sam.

“How’d you get that tattoo?” Sam blurted after a while. It was a reasonable question. Sixteen-year-old girls with tattoos were unusual, and the odd, blobby tattoo was clearly visible on Sylvie’s arm.

Sylvie smiled. “Mark gave it to me,” she said, “He worked at a tattoo parlor the summer before last. I think he was a little drunk that night, and he talked me into getting tattooed. Mom and Dad were so mad!” She laughed.

“What’s it of?” Sam asked curiously.

“It was supposed to be a bird,” Sylvie said, “but Mark was drunk, and he totally messed it up. They actually fired him after that. He stabbed himself and got blood mixed in with the ink. It was ridiculous.”


	4. A Monster In Both Senses of the Term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John is away burning Mark's bones, Sam and Sylvie finally confront the ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more discussion of sexual assault in this chapter, and the rapist has some nasty things to say. The victim is not present, though.

Sam picked up his coloring book, and instead of flipping it so it was upright and the front cover was facing him, he just opened it from the back. And there he found something new. Most of the pages had lines to color between that formed pictures, but at the back there was a blank page. He flipped it over, and there were no black lines on the other side, either. Sam contemplated the empty page thoughtfully. He wondered what to draw.

Looking around the room for inspiration, Sam saw Sylvie sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against it. She was reading a thick paperback book. He could see her eyes moving back and forth along the lines of text, but after observing her for a few minutes he realized that her eyes never moved down and she never turned the page. That was interesting, even though it was something he knew a lot of people did.

He opened his crayon box and pulled out the first one his fingers touched. And then he started to work a bit on his sketch. He didn’t feel like much of an artist, but he knew objectively that he was at least decent for his age. He’d been practicing a lot lately, too, and that made a difference. He drew in Sylvie’s lips, cheeks, nose, and a bit of the bottom of her eyes with the purple crayon. He then looked through the other color options and picked a blue that blended well with the purple he’d been using. He drew beneath the purple, coloring Sylvie’s chin and neck, etching in the line of her shoulders. She wasn’t quite facing him in the drawing, although most of her face was visible.

The last crayon Sam used was a red one. With it, he drew in the rest of Sylvie’s eyes. He colored her forehead and started working on her hair. When he finished the top of her hair and reached the purple segment of the drawing he switched crayons, but tried to keep the same design in the hair. He did the same with the transition into blue, finally letting Sylvie’s long hair cascade over her shoulders and out the bottom of the paper.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the drawing. He’d heard of backgrounds and he thought it might be kind of fun to try one, but he liked the three tone fade and he wasn’t sure what colors and designs wouldn’t mess it up. So he called the drawing finished and decided to study it to see if it could clarify his understanding of Sylvie’s emotions. All he could see in real life was that she was tired and trying to keep her face blank.

In the picture, Sylvie didn’t look tired. Her face was empty, but the general emptiness just made the clear traces of hope pop. But her eyes, though- Sylvie’s eyes weren’t empty. Sam could see three things there, in the purple-red crayon drawn eyes. The first thing Sam saw was resignation, belying the hope in the rest of her face. He wasn’t sure which was real, but it looked like both. He wasn’t sure how hope and resignation went together, but he could see that they did. It left him with a lot to wonder about.

The largest thing in the picture Sylvie’s eyes was an emotion he couldn’t define. He wanted to call it sadness, but he could tell that wasn’t right. It was darker and warmer than sadness, more like despair. A rich, inky, wet emotion that made her eyes crisper and faded at the same time.

The last thing in her eyes was small, but Sam had no trouble identifying it. Hatred. He didn’t know what the focus was or how strong the feeling was, but now that he could see what to look for it was even clear in the real Sylvie’s eyes.

“I drew you,” Sam said, not really sure where he was going with this. He still wasn’t used to speaking.

Sylvie looked up. “You did?” She didn’t sound particularly interested or uninterested. Her voice didn’t sound entirely alive to Sam.

Sam nodded. “Do you want to see it?”

Sylvie got up and came over to see the drawing. She studied it for a few moments. “It’s good, Sam. Keep drawing. You could go somewhere with that.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ll never get out of hunting.”

Sylvie sat down next to him. “Do you _want_ out of hunting?” she asked.

Sam shrugged. “Yes, no, does it matter? My brother died hunting. It’s all I’ve got left of him, and it killed him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. John will never let me quit, and I’ve got nothing else.”

“It sounds pretty grim,” Sylvie said thoughtfully.

“It’s not that bad,” Sam said, “I like helping people, and I see a lot of cool places doing all the traveling.”

“But don’t you ever just wanna get away from everything?” Sylvie asked.

“Never enough to actually do anything about it.”

“Hmm.” Sylvie rested her chin in her hands, staring out the window.

For a while there was silence. Then the lights flickered ominously. Sam looked up at the light fixture.

“That’s not good,” he said.

“It’s pretty normal,” Sylvie said, shivering. “I’m gonna go grab a sweater.”

She went to leave, but Sam grabbed her arm and held her back from stepping over the salt line.

“Cold and flickering lights are both signs of restless spirits,” Sam said, “I think- I think your brother’s here.”

Sylvie choked. “I- I might see Mark again,” she said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“It won’t be Mark,” Sam said, “Not really.”

A young man appeared outside the circle. “Sylvie?”

“Mark!” Sylvie cried, pulling away from Sam to run towards him. She checked herself at the edge of the circle and stood just inside it. “Mark,” she whispered.

“Hey, sis,” he said, smiling at her, “It’s good to finally talk to you.”

“Sylvie, stay away from him,” Sam said, getting up slowly.

“Mark, you’re dead,” Sylvie said weakly.

“Oh, I know,” Mark said harshly, “Worthless _bitch_ mauled me.”

“What?” Sylvie asked, “It was an animal attack…” she trailed off. “Or was it a werewolf.”

“Angela,” Sam said, “Angela was a werewolf, right, Mark? She killed you, after you-” He couldn’t finish that sentence.

“That girl was just a dumb bitch,” Mark snapped, “I knew that before she grew claws and was literally a human dog cross. Ugh, she was so disgusting. Couldn’t believe I’d slept with that _thing_.”

Sylvie retreated backwards away from Mark. “You didn’t- you didn’t _rape_ …?”

The truth was obvious on Mark’s face, along with his complete lack of remorse.

Suddenly blinded with rage, Sylvie took a step forward and punched her dead brother in the face. He wasn’t solid, so her fist met nothing but air. Overextended, Sylvie fell forward through Mark and landed on her hands and knees on the floor outside the salt circle. Mark scowled darkly down at her.

Sam dashed forward to help Sylvie as Mark kneed her in the side of the head. Sylvie was knocked sideways onto the floor. Sam yanked Sylvie up and away from Mark, pulling her inside the salt circle.

“You know, when I was alive, I liked you pretty well,” Mark told Sylvie, “You were annoying and fluffy girly, but you weren’t bad for a kid sister. You’d follow me around and do whatever I said, and I liked that about you. Now you just annoy me all the time. Maybe I’ll kill you tonight instead of your little friend.” He sneered at Sam.

Sylvie leaned forward and spat in Mark’s face.

“You little-!” He tried to attack her, but the salt kept him away. He growled at Sylvie, who kept her chin high in the air and wouldn’t look at him.

“Just go away!” Sam ordered Mark, “You can’t touch us in here. Go away!”

“You should move on,” Sylvie told Mark coolly, “You’re dead. There’s nothing for you here.”

“I’ll kill both of you!” Mark yelled.

“You can’t,” Sylvie said triumphantly, “Salt circle.”

“Oh, really,” Mark sneered. He went over to the window and pressed his palm against the glass. The temperature in the room instantly dropped, and the glass got the worst of it. It shattered.

Sam was trembling with cold, and Sylvie could see her breath. They both watched the lights flicker.

“How does that help with anything?” Sam asked defiantly.

The wind blew in through the window. It had picked up while they’d been waiting and neither of them had noticed. It brushed against the edge of the salt circle and blew part of it away.

“No!” Sam yelped.

Mark entered the circle through the gap and approached Sam angrily.

“Whoa,” Sam said, raising his hands, “Mark, cool down. You don’t have to do this. You’ve still got part of your mind!”

He hissed at Sam. “That werewolf bitch killed me, so now I can kill you. I _want_ to kill you. You’re an annoying, petty-”

“Hey, Mark!” Sylvie interrupted. He turned towards her, and she threw a handful of salt up into his eyes. He disappeared.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“I was just hoping it would work,” Sylvie said, smiling shakily. “I’m glad it did.”

“It was good thinking,” Sam said, “John uses salt bullets sometimes, but I guess just throwing salt works too.” He looked at the broken circle. They should’ve kept the salt in the living room instead of putting it away when they were finished. “Stay here,” he told Sylvie, “I’ve got to get more salt to repair the circle.”

“Is he- gone?” Sylvie asked.

“Not for long,” Sam told her, before hurrying to the kitchen. He grabbed the salt and turned to go back to the living room, but a table smashed him against the wall. Sam gave a little cry of pain as the table put too much pressure on his chest, and he dropped the salt. Mark appeared.

“Lemme go!” Sam wailed. It was frighteningly hard to breathe. “I didn’t do anything to you! I’m just trying to protect your sister. What kind of brother are you, hurting her like that?”

Mark hesitated for a moment.

Sam panted shakily from the pain and stress he was feeling. “Just _go_ ,” he begged, “You don’t belong on earth anymore. Move on.”

Mark raised his hand, and the table pushed Sam more firmly into the wall. Sam screamed, and he thought he heard something in his chest snap. He was being crushed. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

“Mark!” Sylvie ran into the room. “Mark, stop it! He’s just a kid!”

Mark turned on her, but didn’t release the table from his power. Sam couldn’t breathe.

“Mark, you are a complete jerk!” Sylvie started, “But you were human once. Stop hurting people, now.”

“What, you think you can order me around?” Mark demanded. He slapped Sylvie, and she stumbled backwards.

Sam was dazed with pain, but he could think enough to know that he had to help Sylvie. It was his job to save people, the only thing that made his life manageable. The salt had landed on the table, just within reach. Mark wasn’t watching him. Sam clenched his fingers around the edge of the container and pulled it towards himself. He managed to grab a handful of salt in one hand and mimicked Sylvie’s move earlier by throwing it at Mark.

He was too far away from Mark for it to make him vanish, but Mark yelped angrily and turned away from Sylvie to attack Sam. He crushed the table into Sam with even more force, and Sam screamed silently. His cheeks were wet with tears he hadn’t noticed shedding. He summoned all the willpower he had and threw more salt at Mark, making him vanish.

With Mark went the power shoving the table into Sam’s chest, and he pushed it away weakly. He tried to stay on his feet, but he ended up collapsing and hitting the side of his head on the floor.

“Sam?” Sylvie knelt next to him and picked up the salt. “Can you get up? He could come back; we need to get you to the salt circle.”

Sam shivered. “Hurts,” he whimpered. Every single breath he took hurt. It was miserable.

“Mark’ll be back, Sam,” Sylvie said, “You’ve gotta get up.”

Sam struggled to a sitting position with a little cry of pain. “Can’t breathe.”

“You just have to make it to the living room,” Sylvie pleaded, “Come on, Sam.”

She helped him to his feet, and he stumbled painfully into the living room. He sat slumped on the couch, struggling to breathe. Sylvie fixed the salt line and sat down on the floor in the center of the circle.

“Why does my chest hurt so much?” Sam whined.

“He was crushing you,” Sylvie said, “You probably broke your ribs.”

Sam scrubbed the tears from his eyes and tried not to shed more. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Time passed in silence, and Mark didn’t come back. It started warming up, although the wind was still blowing through the window. It undid the salt circle again, and Sam tried to get up to fix it. Pain shot through his chest, and he collapsed back against the couch.

“Sylvie?” Sam asked, “Can you-?” He motioned to the broken edge of the salt circle.

“Oh, of course,” Sylvie said, getting up and grabbing the salt. She fixed the edge of the circle and sat back down again, cradling the salt in her lap. Her face was pale and her shoulders were hunched.

“You alright?” Sam asked weakly.

Sylvie shrugged. “It was just hard. Seeing Mark again after so long, just to have him say all that and act like a psycho and everything. He used to be- well, I guess he was a monster even when he alive, but he hid it. And- I never saw that side of him. But what he did to Angela-” Sylvie broke off, fists clenched in anger.

For a few minutes the only sound was Sam’s ragged breathing.

A car pulled up outside, and a moment later there was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” Sylvie called, getting up.

“Stay in the salt circle,” Sam warned. It was probably John or Mr. and Mrs. Alberts, but it could be a trick from Mark to get them to leave the circle.

The door opened, and John came in. “Sam, come on,” he ordered harshly.

“Dad?” Sam asked weakly, “You’re back.”

“Did you burn the body?” Sylvie asked.

“Yes,” John snapped, “Sam, we’re leaving.”

“Right,” Sam mumbled, trying to stand and falling back with a cry of pain.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” John demanded.

“He’s hurt,” Sylvie said, “We have to take him to a hospital.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam mumbled.

“I think he might’ve broken his ribs,” Sylvie said.

“Up,” John ordered, grabbing Sam’s shoulders and yanking him to a standing position.

Sam gasped in pain and started crying.

“You can walk it off.” John let go of Sam and turned to walk to the door. Sam wavered.

“You can’t _walk off_ broken ribs, idiot,” Sylvie snapped, “He’s seriously hurt.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl,” John growled, “Come on, Sam.”

Sam tried to walk but the pain was too much and he stopped.

“I said we’re leaving!” John yelled.

“I can’t,” Sam whimpered, “Hurts.”

“Are you _crying_?” John demanded.

“N-no.” Sam sobbed.

“Man up,” John spat, “You’re a hunter, not some whiny crybaby. Act like it.” He stormed out of the house and marched down to his car.

“Your dad’s an insensitive jerk,” Sylvie noted.

Sam shook his head miserably. “He tries.”

“We should call a doctor,” Sylvie said, looking at the bloodstained front of Sam’s shirt.

“Dad would be mad,” Sam protested.

“Sam, you can barely stand,” Sylvie said.

Mark appeared, standing inside the circle. They hadn’t noticed the wind blowing part of the salt away. Mark punched Sam hard on the side of his head, knocking him to the floor. Sam gasped hoarsely, pain shooting through his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and it hurt so much.

“But he burned the bones!” Sylvie cried.

“Get dad,” Sam gasped.

Sylvie ran for the salt and dumped it over the broken part, resealing the circle. Mark was trapped inside. “Oh,” Sylvie realized, “That traps him _inside_ …”

Mark kicked Sam in the butt, making him yelp. 

Sylvie threw two fistfuls of salt at Mark, and he vanished. “W-where is he?” she asked, “Is he still in the circle, or-?”

“Salt banishes him for a moment,” Sam mumbled, “Help me get out of here. He’s stuck in the circle.”

“OK, this’ll hurt,” Sylvie said. She picked Sam up quickly. He couldn’t manage a scream, but he whimpered. Sylvie set him down carefully outside the circle. She checked the edges of the circle and tried to reinforce the places that the wind had a tendency to blow apart.

John stormed in in a rage. “You should’ve been in the car ten minutes ago!” he yelled.

Sam whimpered.

“Your bone burning thing doesn’t work,” Sylvie snapped at John.

“Oh, and what would _you_ know about hunting?” John demanded condescendingly.

“We just saw the ghost,” Sylvie said coolly, “He didn’t look _gone_ to me when he was punching _your kid!”_

“He’s tied to something else,” John said, “Do you or your parents have anything of his? Something he bled on?”

Sam struggled to sit up and gave up when it hurt worse than breathing. “Sylvie,” he cried weakly, “Tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” Sylvie asked, “Oh. He bled on it.”

“Mark bled in your tattoo?” John asked.

Sylvie showed him her arm. “He was drunk when he was applying it, and the blood got mixed in with the ink. I don’t know, but there might be traces I guess.”

“Alright,” John said, “So we burn Sylvie’s arm and Mark will move on.”

“What?” Sylvie squeaked, “You’re not burning my arm!”

“Only way to get rid of the ghost,” John said coolly.

“No,” Sylvie snapped, “You can’t do that. I kinda need my arm.”

“It’s the only way,” John said.

Mark appeared inside the circle. “You trapped me!” he hissed angrily at Sylvie.

She raised her chin. “Well, now you’re stuck and you’re never getting out.”

“Stay here,” John ordered Sylvie, “I’ll be back with lighter fluid. Sam, make sure she doesn’t run.” He left for the car.

“What do we do?” Sylvie asked Sam hopelessly.

“I don’t know.”

“You should run,” Mark growled, “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill Sam, and that dumb fake FBI agent. It’s over.”

“Gotta be a way to get the tattoo off without hurting you,” Sam mumbled, “Just gotta find it.” He tried to smile at her, but everything hurt so much that he thought it might’ve been more of a grimace.

Mark squatted by the edge of the salt circle and blew hard.

“No!” Sylvie yelped as the circle broke.

Mark was on Sam in an instant, pressing his fingers into Sam’s cheek and tearing the flesh away before biting down hard. He used telekinetic power to split a few of Sam’s teeth and crush his gum out of shape. When he straightened up the bite in Sam’s cheek was exactly the same as they’d seen on all the other victims.

Sam lay on the ground in a daze. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, it was just too much. He was barely holding onto consciousness in the face of all that pain.

Sylvie threw salt at Mark, but he dodged out of the way and then snatched the salt away from her, throwing it out the window. “No!” Sylvie yelped. She tried to hit Mark, but her fists just went right through him. He turned back to Sam, and Sylvie ran to the door, screaming for John.

Mark gashed the uninjured side of Sam’s face with his nails, scoring it with five long gashes. Sam moaned in pain. Blood was covering his face and got in his mouth, making it even harder to breathe. His chest hurt so much. Mark scored Sam’s chest with claw marks, but there was already so much pain there that he barely noticed it. More blood poured across his body, hot and sticky and smelling like rust. It was disgusting and made him feel nauseous.

John came in, and Mark left Sam alone for a moment to face him. John dodged Mark’s first punch, but Mark knocked him backwards into the wall and he hit his head. John collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Sylvie knelt next to Sam. She reached for him, but there was so much blood and he was covered in so many injuries that she didn’t dare touch him. “Sam?” she asked softly, “Can you hear me?”

He whimpered.

Mark punched Sylvie in the stomach and threw her away from Sam.

“You’re like an animal,” Sylvie muttered, staring at Mark, “You’re not the brother I remember at all anymore.”

“You can’t stop me,” he growled, tearing into Sam’s shoulder, the one on the same side as the bite mark on his cheek. Sam was too dazed and weakened from blood loss to react.

“I’ll stop you,” Sylvie declared in a confident but choked voice.

Mark ignored her. He was biting chunks out of Sam’s shoulder, using his power as a vengeful ghost to deepen the wounds and cut bone. His mouth and hands were covered in Sam’s blood, making him appear every bit the monster he was.

Sylvie ran to the kitchen and grabbed a decent size knife from the knife block. She figured it would be useless on a ghost, but it would work on her. She ran back into the living room and got the lighter fluid from John, who was still out. Sylvie sat down and held the knife up against her shoulder. Her hand was shaking, and she wasn’t sure she had the will to do what she knew she had to. But it was the only way to save Sam and get rid of the monster who wasn’t her brother anymore. Who’d maybe always been a monster, as he was human when he raped Angela. She had to take him out.

Sylvie pressed the knife against her skin and pushed. It was hard to make herself make the first cut, but then it got easier. The pain was strong and horrible, but it made everything seem more clear. The cuts got deeper, and blood streamed everywhere. Sylvie’s head spun with dizziness from the blood loss, but she felt better and stronger than she had in months. She cut harder, tearing away all the flesh around the tattoo. It slid away from her shoulder, pieces landing on the floor with disgusting, wet slapping noises.

She was so dizzy that she wasn’t sure how she managed it, but she coated the pieces she’d cut from her shoulder in lighter fluid. Blood and oil mixed in a pool around the sickening strips of torn flesh. Her shoulder felt like it was on fire, and the room spun. Sylvie found a lighter in John’s coat pocket and snapped it open with trembling fingers. She couldn’t see straight, and she dropped the lighter as she fainted. It fell in the edge of the blood and lighter fluid puddle, and the lighter fluid started burning.

Soon the flesh and the remnants of the tattoo burned, and Mark went up in smoke and stopped hurting Sam. Sam, Sylvie, and John were all unconscious. Sam and Sylvie were bleeding terribly, and the fire was still going. The wooden floor of the living room caught fire easily enough, and it slowly started to spread throughout the house. The walls were quite flammable, and the living room was soon wreathed in flames. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the thing with blood in a tattoo would actually work. I do not have a tattoo and none of my close friends have tattoos, and I didn't bother doing much research. But whether it actually works or not, it is the type of thing you'd see in a spn episode, so I figure it's fine.


	5. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fire, self harm, minor character suicide
> 
> And here's the ending. Six months late, but I finished it. The series isn't over, but this instalment is. The next bit will probably just be fluff.

When John woke up the fire was all around him. His head throbbed, and his eyes couldn’t focus properly. He climbed onto his hands and knees, keeping his head down to avoid the worst of the smoke. He tried to pick up his gun, but it was too close to the fire. The metal burned his hand and he pulled back, hissing in pain.

He took a moment to collect himself and looked around. Sam and the girl, Sylvie, were lying unmoving on the ground. Sam didn’t look too badly hurt, and Sylvie was closer to the fire. Sylvie was covered in blood and a chunk of her shoulder had been hacked off. She was loosely holding a bloody bread knife that had torn skin on the side of the blade. John wasn’t sure how she’d gotten like that, but it didn’t matter in the moment. He was trapped in a burning building with two unconscious kids and a ghost.

John didn’t see the ghost anywhere near, so he figured he’d get the kids out first and worry about the monster later. He pulled Sylvie farther from the fire and carried Sam out of the house. He dropped Sam on the lawn and went back for Sylvie.

She was sitting up, alert and wide eyed. “Fire. There’s fire everywhere.” Her breaths were fast and shallow.

“Quit panicking,” John snapped, “Come on.” He headed back towards the door, and she crawled after him weakly. Luckily, they made it outside before the house could collapse.

There was an ambulance there in short order, and John, Sylvie and Sam were brought to the hospital. The doctors were initially expecting Sam to have a long, nasty recovery period, but they found that they’d miscalculated everything as their readings seemed to shift magically and Sam just healed. In half an hour he was sleeping, not unconscious, and his originally serious injuries were all just minor little things that should twinge a bit for the next few weeks but wouldn’t stop him from doing anything. It was a miracle.

When Sam woke up, Michael was sitting next to his bed.

Sam sat up nervously. “Hi,” he said in a small voice.

“Hiya, Sammy,” Michael said cheerfully, “You feeling ok?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. And then he paused for a moment to consider the truth of that statement. “I shouldn’t feel ok.” He looked down at himself and saw that all the damage he remembered was gone. When he looked back up at Michael his expression was guarded. “You healed me.”

“Is that a crime?” Michael asked innocently.

“No,” Sam said uneasily. “Can I have a species name?”

“Tarantula,” Michael replied immediately.

“Uh…”

Michael chuckled. “You just said _a_ species name. You’re gonna hafta be more specific if you want _my_ species name.”

“It’s good to know you’re not secretly a tarantula,” Sam admitted, “And- what’s _your_ species name?”

“Sorry,” Michael said, swinging his legs like the little kid he almost certainly wasn’t, “I’m not gonna tell you that.”

“Why not?” Sam asked. He tried to keep it an honest question and not make it sound like an accusation or a complaint. It was hard.

“Cuz my species has a rep,” Michael explained, “ _I_ have a rep. Do you want to go ice skating in a month?”

Sam didn’t object to the blatant subject change. “I would, but I’ll be leaving town. Probably tomorrow.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Do you want to go ice skating in whatever town you are in in a month?”

“You can do that?” Sam asked, brow wrinkling.

“Uh huh. Is that a yes?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Sam agreed.

Michael smiled. “Good. I’ll see you then, Sam.”

Sam blinked, and Michael was gone. That was weird, but no weirder than anything else that happened around Michael. He should probably tell John about his obviously supernatural friend, but Michael almost _was_ his friend and Sam wanted a friend so badly. Michael hadn’t killed anything as far as Sam knew, so there was nothing worth hunting, right?

John stomped in an hour or two later and announced that they were leaving before the police could get suspicious.

“Could I say goodbye to Sylvie?” Sam asked.

“No,” John said shortly, “C’mon.” He left, Sam scrambling after him.

It was nice to be back in the back seat of the Impala. Just- on the road. Listening to rock and roll, watching the speed limit signs flash by way faster than was legal. Sure, it was too cold for Sam’s jacket and John glowering made the atmosphere in the car tense, but Sam could work with that. Life was pretty good.

It was sometime later that Sam’s life went right back to dark. He was looking at John’s discarded newspaper, and there was just some random story on one of the middle pages. _Teenage Girl Dies in Graphic Suicide._ Sam skimmed it and saw that the girl was Sylvie. He didn’t read for details. He didn’t want to know whether she’d died of injuries from cutting out the ghost tattoo and the doctors had mistaken it for suicide, or if she’d actually killed herself. He didn’t know how they could mistake those injuries for a suicide, but they were self inflicted and maybe the doctors had gotten confused? He hoped that was what had happened.

Sam liked Sylvie. He’d only known her for a few hours, but they’d fought side by side and he was having a hard enough time with her being dead. She couldn’t have killed herself.

But she could have. With almost nothing left to live for and a rapist for a brother? Sylvie could’ve killed herself so easily. And Sam would totally understand. He didn’t have much left to live for, either.

He hoped Sylvie hadn’t killed herself.

Tears falling in the middle of the night. His hunting knife clutched in his hand. A flash of pain as he dragged the knife across his skin.

Elation- for a moment. A lack of pain.

God, it felt so good.

A moment later an icky feeling somewhere between guilt and horror.

Another cut to not feel the guilt for another moment.

Blood drips down Sam’s arm.


End file.
